Okay, so let me just say: Psycho Donuts. I have, and will continue to wax lyrical about the freshly made donuts at Lola in Seattle* but Psycho Donuts come at the whole donut issue from a totally different (totally brilliant) direction.
They said to themselves, You know what’s missing from the donut scene? Total lunacy. We can fill that niche.
It goes like this:
You walk into the store already distracted by the weird decor only to brought to a stop by the padded room to the left. Pre-prepared in case it’s all too much.
You’re then greeted by a server with awesome piercings and really cool bat tattoos. Does she say, How can I help you? No. She says, Would you like some bubble wrap?
There is only one answer to that. Hell, yes!
You pop. You consider the Strawberry Jam soda, you contemplate the Leninade.
And then you get to the donuts. Which, I have to tell you, deserve a serious moment of admiration before anyone even thinks about eating them. Because this is the store that brings you the Strawberry Margarita donut, the Dead Elvis (Bacon, bananas, PB&J — all on a custard-filled donutrocity), the Cap’n Crunch smothered Cereal Killer donut, the Dirty Turtle (This tasty terrapin has been wallowing in cheesecake, Oreo dust and caramel)… I could go on. I probably will.
You make your choices. You receive a box piled with hilariously tasty donuts. You’re distracted by a selection of pens that look like medical syringes. Your server suggests you forge your companion’s signature.
You leave, going forth blinking into the bright sunshine and wondering exactly whose dreamscape that store wandered out of. (You don’t really care. You’re already planning to come back.)
* So good we got up before six am our last day there just so we could go for donuts one more time.